Living By Dunkin' Donuts (Part 4)

I'm still waiting for the Dunkin' Donuts manager to call.  I'm sure he has my application and my resume.  Every time I visit the store, I pause at the exit and try to imagine what it will be like when Dunkin' calls me, when I get the job as quality control expert.  I imagine what it will be like when I can wear a Dunkin' apron, my hands powdered with sugar, my arches stiff from standing over a hot oven with a cold glass of milk in hand, ready to taste-test another batch.  Believe me, it will be a great day in my life.

Until then, I'm enjoying living in the bright lights of the Dunkin' Donuts sign.  Most nights, before I go to sleep, I look out the front window at home and catch a glimpse of the DD logo shimmering under the moonlight in the distance.  I wonder who is eating in there, and what types of donuts the manager is preparing to create the next day.  I wonder if they miss me.  I ponder if my resume is getting closer to the top of the pile and if, by some sweet turn of fate when the manager has an itchy finger and two employees call in sick with scurvy, he may think of me and dial.  I'll be waiting by the phone, anticipating my caller-ID to read:  The Manager Needs Your Donuts.

These are often the last thoughts I have at night, before I turn out the light next to the bed and lean over and kiss my wife and tell her I love her.  Often, I get confused and say, "I love you, Dunkin'" and I can feel my wife's icy stare puncturing the darkness, wondering if I'm seeing another woman.

I'm not . . . but she probably wonders why my passionate goodnight kisses often taste like raspberry jelly and why, almost out of force of habit now, I wipe the tell-tale signs of powdered sugar on the cold side of the pillow and weep.

I could, of course, get on with my life . . . if only the manager would call me.